Sigh No More
by Random Inspired
Summary: So it's a running joke that all Mumford and Sons songs can be applied to Destiel. But what happens when Cas starts speaking in lyrics to Dean, and how long will it take him to notice?
1. Timshel

**A/N: Hi guys! Thank you to everyone following my stories and me, you should know most things I write are oneshots because my responsibility is as good as my spelling and I would never update a multichapter fic.**

**Hopefully it will be different with this one. I'm going to listen to a Mumford and Sons song once a day, and write a short fic about it when I get home. It may or may not read as a coherent story, I can't promise anything. It's more of a writing exercise than anything. But I hope you enjoy it!**

It started on a Tuesday. Weird shit always happened on Tuesdays; Especially to Dean apparently.

But this was possible the weirdest shit that had happened to him ever, and considering he had been kidnapped by fairies and killed approximately one hundred and four times it was really a momentous title.

Cas started rhyming.

It wasn't emphasised, in fact it seemed that Cas didn't even notice it. He had just stared at Dean his eyes heavy with meaning and intensity as he muttered, "You are not alone in this."

Dean felt the words punch through his chest and burrow into his heart before he could put up his normal thick, brick walls. It nestled there and glowed, warm and content in its new home. Dean's mouth hung open slightly and his eyes didn't leave Castiel's.

Cas then reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, still intense.

Dean realized Cas was talking and Dean took a moment to flip back on what he had said.

"As brothers we will stand, and I'll hold your hand. Because you are not alone in this, Dean."

Dean chuckled and smirked awkwardly, forcing the warmth into his chest rather than it radiating into his cheeks. "The hand holding is really unneeded, Cas."

The way Castiel had said those words was almost lyrical, even with his rough voice. Dean wondered absently how Cas would sound if he read poetry. He'd probably like Wordsworth, Dean thought, snorting internally. All about flowers and clouds and how pretty everything around him was. In all honesty, Dean had a soft spot for Wordsworth, but he really preferred Oscar Wilde to anything else.

Cas looked at him for longer than usual. This also, was saying something. "Whatever you say Dean."

His hand was still gripping him tightly. It wasn't 'The Shoulder'. The one Dean capitalized one day without realizing he had and now couldn't fall out of the habit. He tried to make the mark not mean anything to him. He tried to force the meaning out of it, wring the scar out like a sponge, make it mean the same thing as all his other scars had. A fight he had come back from alive.

But the hand print meant more than that. It meant he _deserved_ to come back at all. And he still wasn't comfortable thinking that.

Cas was still watching him like he could hear all of his thoughts. Dean wished he hadn't told Castiel not to, because sometimes he wanted Cas to understand, and he wouldn't unless he heard it from Dean's point of view in a way he would never voice aloud.

But this… Saying they would fight together. That they were brothers? That Dean was used to. That Dean could deal with.

The thank you was quiet, but it leads to a slight quirk in Castiel's lips, and Dean felt the words in his heart flare again. And this time he let them warm him. Just a little, but also just enough.


	2. For Those Below

**A/N: Hey guys, I've decided I'll try and do this on weekdays except Wednesdays. Also fuck I'm not going to be able to make them a continuous story line, sorry. They'll likely just be snippets of AU's and things. Thank you for reading!**

On this hunt Dean had nearly died.

That was the long and short of it. Not the normal 'nearly died' that was normally experienced by one of the brothers (and on rare occasion, both of them) bi hunt-ly, but a 'heart-stopped-was-actually-dead-for-a-full-minute' near death experience.

And Dean must be getting old, because he couldn't even lie to himself that he wasn't rattled.

Thank god (yes, absolutely little 'g'), Cas had been there to save his bacon.

But now… Dean was thinking.

Which was always a bad idea on his part.

He was stretched out on his bed shoes off and still stinking slightly. He hated the way his clothes clung to him but he was tired in that aching, boneless way where he just wanted to curl up and sleep. But his brain was in overdrive. Thinking. Pondering. Playing with what-if's in the dark motel room.

There was one question echoing around and around in his head in time with Sammy's snores.

_What if I really had died?_

Maybe he was whispering it aloud or something because the next thing he knew, the bed was dipping and Castiel was at his side, looking at the wall across from the bed. The wall was papered in a vibrantly visible 'red-with-large-hippo's wall paper and Dean was sort of glad it was too dark to see it properly.

"Do you really wish to know Dean?"

Cas still hadn't taken his eyes off the wall and Dean felt awkward just staring at him so he looked down at his hands.

"Depends on your answer Cas."

Cas got a faraway look in his already distant gaze. "You'll find yourself on top, as the leader of the flock."

Dean leaned in, confused. "I… Flock? Are you saying I'm going to be a bird?"

Castiel finally turned to face him. "No Dean. You will be an angel. Just as all vessels do."

Dean said nothing, his mouth hanging open. Cas took this as an indication to explain more. "A lower level angel. I myself was never a human. Nor was anyone on my angelic level. But others were, and you Dean, you will be the strongest of them all."

Dean shut his eyes before standing slowly. "Get out."

"I… Dean?" Dean couldn't meet Castiel's eyes. He knew they'd be large and blue and so, so lost just from the tone of his voice.

"Now."

He heard the air swirl around where Cas used to be and his shut his eyes and took a steading breath.

An angel.

He would turn into an angel when he died. That was beyond wrong. It was past weird.

To picture himself as one of them. Cold, unfeeling, dispassionate.

If there was one thing Dean was it was passionate.

He sat down; his head swimming with more thoughts than it had been before.

He was absolutely not sleeping tonight.


End file.
